Sunday, October 31, 2010

Intense it’s found in whirling winds,
cyclones hit to tear apart the structure.
Flinging splinters on the eaves,
rampage is forced upon the open wound.
Salt poured in and festering, malignant scars,
bolts slash across crooked angles without edges.
While bleeding eyes contain no justice,
for the weak of mind and spirit.
An onslaught of wicked rain soaks to the core.
Gripped tightly in its fist, furiously, pleading,
for it to come to an end.

Do the promenade (it’s free)
At the bal masqué
Cover your eyes and smile slyly
Our identities concealed for the night
We move under crystal chandeliers
While the champagne spills on to the marble,
beneath our feet
We don the silken masques
Hands hold diamonds, emeralds, rubies
We dance to the orchestra never revealing who we are

Friday, October 29, 2010

A decoupage created from my life
Colours are vibrant and alive
Chagall, Van Gogh and Dali

Freida sits at an easel, sorrowful
Che with a Cuban cigar,
smoke curls round his mustache
mingles, as the devil hides in the guestroom
Waiting for me to sleep,
So he can dance round the room
To his solemn tune

An angel lives under my kitchen sink
I’ve seen her wings and cherub face
A gallery of faces
Mirrors in every room

An eagle at my front door grasps a snake
in its beak
Mayans watch my cat, sleeping on the couch
While lazy dogs lie in the morning sun
Who created this catastrophe?

Wormwood grows wild in the garden
Spirits roam looking for a place to rest
Candles light the way, while I place
marigolds on the table

Sunday, October 24, 2010

In ’84 I met a girl named Janie Alison White. I loved her like no other.
I made her my wife. We lived happily enough. I wrote; she cleaned.
And the love we made was the sweetest love I have ever dreamed.
In ’86 she began writing; I encouraged her. She was bored with cleaning;
I was bored with her. I’d been having affairs for a year; she’d been faithful to me.
And when I read her first poem I knew what had to be. She was better than me.
I began plotting her death. She wrote with pen and paper. She never made a mistake.
Her words were music haunting me from each and every page.
She asked my opinion of her work; I wanted to lie but I couldn’t.
I said it was good but she’d have to improve. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t.
She asked me how to get published. I told her I’d handle it.
I put my name on her poems. Something I’ll never regret.
One night as I sat beside her, reading her beautiful verse,
I realized she’d written enough; I wouldn’t need her anymore,
for she’d written with abandoned grace.
There was enough unpublished work to keep me forever famous.
I got my gun, blew off her head, dragged her remains to the attic.
Cut her in pieces: little pieces. What surprised me was:
each piece recited a poem. I turned on my tape recorder while
cleaning the bloody mess. I hurried to my typewriter,
transcribing from the tape. I heard a sound;
I turned and looked. Janie stood behind me, misty,
transparent, reading her poetry. “It’s pretty good,” she said.
“I know.” I published her pieces in a volume.
It won a Pulitzer Prize. I got a grant and fame and fortune.
I never lost my pride. How one carves his path in this world
should never cause regret. And Janie stands behind me,
reciting still in death. She has volumes to fill.
She’s pleased with the arrangement; at least she doesn’t complain.
She’s such a talented poetess. I’m such a happy man.
You might think I’m crazy. I know that I’m not.
Janie stands behind me; apparitions do not rot. I put her name on my old work;
that seemed to make her happy. Some of it even got published
but died quickly on the shelf. She didn’t seem to care.
I gained great wealth. But she won’t let me leave this desk
where I sit and write her prose.
When I try to rise her frozen breath pushes me back in my chair.
I’ll never leave this room. I’ll always have to write.
For Janie stands behind me. She never leaves my sight.
Yet sometimes when the moon is full I imagine she leaves this room.
I wonder, does she have a place to go? Perhaps a tomb?
I still transcribe her poems every day and every night.
My own could never compare to those of Janie Alison White.
The only lesson in this life that I have ever learned is to
take and take and take and take, leaving nothing in return.

Friday, October 22, 2010

“For Janie stands behind me. She never leaves my sight.
Yet sometimes when the moon is full I imagine she leaves this room.
I wonder, does she have a place to go? Perhaps a tomb?
I still transcribe her poems every day and every night.
My own could never compare to those of Janie Alison White.”

by Michael Barnett

While I sit beside your grave, on All Hallows’ Eve
I read the inscription, written so long ago

“Here lies my beloved bride

May she rest where the daisies rise”

I visualize what your body looks like now
Decayed and crumbling, your once golden hair
brittle … sparse …

No eyes to see with, no mouth to speak
Have worms entered, taking your spirit away?
Do you rest peacefully?
When they heaved the earth upon your casket
Could you feel the weight, pushing you toward eternal sleep?

Are the cold nights lonely for you, in your private bed?
As the rain pours over the ground, soaking through the earth
Does it reach your brittle bones, forming icicles, hanging and suspended?
Do you still listen to the waterfalls, so close outside your home?

When the veil is lifted between living and dead
With marigolds and incense to soothe you
Will we feel at peace?

Process notes: I borrowed the prelude to this poem from
a short story my husband wrote some years back. My husband
is a writer and editor.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

I have reached a crucial intersection
I call mine
Time has been a friend to me
It’s all I own
The sadness we perceive, can always change
Enjoying familiar faces

Seems sometimes I have nothing new to say,
it becomes camouflaged
I follow the itinerary of this road, crossroads form,
which way to turn
As the creases are left, never right, ahead lies the destruction,
have I gone too far?

We place sparrows in the sunsets and watch as they fly
While happiness and sadness run streams — paralleled
You have everything that is needed,
before you make a wrong turn,
blue jays … circle
Listen to the crows sing their song …

Looking for an unhappy soul
Jesus annoying me nattering from my handbag
while the orange cat twas ever,thus
Romans with a spaceship
And a Popiel Pocket Fisherman

Mayans with swords trying to kill the populous
Scrotum-scratching, snickerwarts interrupting and
trying to compete with an ever more obnoxious messiah ...
from my handbag
Falling, many notes that don’t concern me

As they spill into my glass of milk, the chupacabra drools goat blood
making pretty swirling sensations,
reminding me of a cherry shake without olives
Sacrificial thoughts remind me of where not to go ...
... like Cambodia, with its swaying palm trees,
sashaying in the autumn treetops against a stone, blue wall

Monday, October 18, 2010

Having laid your wrath upon me, as the twisted words,
are released from the darkness in your heart.
Brusque attitudes enrapture vice.
Your pride got in the way and envy is surrounding me.
Gluttony at the feast was grotesque, like lust lying
with its loins spread open.
The greed of the minions spilled poverty on the crowd.
Like a futile sloth you crawl below the surface.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

When the tale is told for everyone to hear:
A sliver of light enters the fissure in the wall.
It has the smoothness of a golden chain — twisted.
It winds itself round and encompasses softness.
As a sharp, jagged edge moves along the surface.
It rips open the contents of the sky, unraveling,
pouring diamonds and sapphires onto the blind.
Guiding them on the journey, so that they may not
fall … and drown

A colour that makes you think, might just be anger.
The colour of anger to some, is not the same for everyone.
Red. I pity the people who live in a bubble,
that has left them isolated. With no-one to care for. Blue.
Words are their weapon and a tool to hurt.
It´s like a bruise on first impact. Purple.
Time-takes care of harmful accusations and heartlessness.
It´s a forest filled with foliage. Green.
It´s like a wound disappearing. As you continue to exist. Yellow.

Black is created
Chartreuse can become mellow
Orange changes love

process notes:
I dedicate this poem to some of the unpleasant
people who I have had the misfortune of crossing
paths with.

As I sing the sad song of years, gone and forgotten
You perceive goodness and heartbreak from all things
Bliss causes tidal waves of injustice and corruption
Catch the closeness of scum which lies upon the pond

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Encapsulated by the light of the screen, which divides
and joins all living things on this earth.
Enlightened — we must take great care.
Entrusted with a sincere heart, that will carry us
through the narrow bridges.
Engulfed in hardened arteries of time and haste.
Embrace and relinquish all hatred — form the soul.
Engrave an everlasting light from within.
Exemplified — putrid, rusted veins open
to release the vileness.
Envision this as life ...

Friday, October 8, 2010

I walk under the moon and wait
I stare at the forms in the door
Are you listening to the cry of the owl,
deep in the woods
I watch the domestic fight with sentiment
Throwing china plates and crystal,
that smash with fury against stone walls
And shatter to pieces: on fine linen sheets
As silk lingerie is hung from ceiling rafters
So that we may watch the sorrow flow,
from the unfaithful
the moon the stars and the world

Thursday, October 7, 2010

I just close my mind, sing to myself
Nothing ever satisfies
Soup is cold, meat never cooked enough,
Vegetables overdone
Send it back
All you ever do is whine and cry
My hair, my shoes, my makeup just isn’t right
The weather is too cold, cloudy, sunny, rainy
Hasn’t been a perfect day since '56
Year before you were born
When I see the reflection in the glass
I know it must not be mine, it has to be yours

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Coco
Take your lover in your arms
Change the colours
to black and white
Chanel No. 5
Grasse
Eyedropper of oil
with
flowers, rose du mai, jasmine,
and a synthetic musk
'a concrete' to 'an absolute'
Blend to create a scent for the world
A memory is stirred by the trace of a bouquet
Chanel No. 5
A millinery girl with flair

Monday, October 4, 2010

From outside my window, I see how all things change
As the paint of years gone by starts to crumple and fade
My view has changed, like the shadows on your frame
I painted you with red enamel, dressed you from the inside
So the world may see how beautiful you are to me
You are my window; you capture life as it slowly passes

Sunday, October 3, 2010

As I sat in the pew,
while they prayed for your soul.
To be delivered from evil.
flashback
I knew not my lines in this life.
I looked at your body, covered in a shroud
of fine wool tailoring, a matching silk tie.
flashback
Powdered skin, blushed cheeks.
Unlike you in real life, to me frightening, surreal.
Cold to the touch, a dreaded kiss on an icy cheek.
flashback
An obligation, we must say goodbye.
We shall dance round the pyre ...
It’s just a flashback

Friday, October 1, 2010

Snow covers the ground.
Magic ice castles are on a crystalline surface.
Cold air nips at all senses, glide on to the setting.
Friction over the ice.
As ice curls and cuts on shiny blades.
(rock over and bite)
Bodies bent radially, flexing of knees,
increase, momentum,
cut into the ice.
Into another world . . .
Descend . . .